


AnotherLifetime.com

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Primeval
Genre: Angst, Becker's going to show him otherwise, Getting Together, M/M, Online Dating, Stephen doesn't think he deserves to be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:29:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7444360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen's life is in tatters, so he decides to make a few changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	AnotherLifetime.com

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fredbassett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/gifts).



> Written as a Christmas present for the very lovely fredbassett who gave the prompt “another lifetime”.
> 
> Originally posted to Livejournal in 2012.

“This is ridiculous,” Stephen muttered to himself. “More than that, it's pathetic...And talking to yourself isn't helping...” Stephen took another swig from his can of beer, cursed as he realised it was already empty and threw it on the floor to join the other five. Then he clicked accept on the computer screen in front of him and then hurried away to bed before he could think better of it.

**Four Days Later**

Stephen's head was pounding, his tongue felt like a raccoon had set up shop in it and he was sure that he was never going to be able to hold food down again. But it was that final step, crawling across his bedroom floor to the bathroom in order to vomit up whatever his body was capable of, that broke the particular straw on this camel's back. The Helen-shaped straw.

He couldn't believe that he'd allowed her, allowed anyone, to sink him this low. Literally as low as he could get.

When his stomach protested angrily that it had no more to give, no matter what his brain might be telling it, Stephen sank down onto the bathroom floor and tried to think. First things first, he needed to go out to the kitchen and drink some water, and take some paracetamol. Then he needed to take a long hot shower, sitting down if necessary, and then he needed to shave – he was starting to look like a caveman. After that...well after that he'd try and rejoin civilisation. Maybe answer the texts and voicemails that were piling up on his phone. Pretend that he hadn't been ignoring all responsibility for a lot longer than his breakup with Helen would imply.

He was very good at pretending.

* * * * *

The shower felt like the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him, and Stephen stayed under the searing heat for much longer than he ever would have before – a shower wasn't any more environmentally friendly than a bath if you used up more than a bath's worth of water. With his eyes closed he could almost imagine that all the bad choices he'd made, all the stupid decisions he’d convinced himself were just a product of his circumstances, were being washed away.

He opened his eyes and blinked away the water. Nothing would redeem him now.

* * * **

Wrapped in a soft pair of jogging bottoms and his favourite jumper he felt a little more like himself. And he'd managed to look himself in the eye, once or twice at least, as he'd been shaving, so that had to count as some sort of win.

Some sort of something, anyway. He'd quantify it later.

He made tea and downed some more tablets, before setting out to make some scrambled eggs on toast, of which he managed half. It was more food than he’d been able to keep down in a while though, so another win of sorts.

Then he set about cleaning up his flat, throwing away beer cans, putting dirty clothes in the washing machine, organising his collection of magazines and tipping most of them into the recycling. He liked his home space to be organised, as a counterpart to the chaos that Cutter seemed to revel in at work. But now, now it didn't really matter so much, and unconsciously he found his flat becoming more lived in, as if reverting back to a space he could be glad to return to. It needed more colour, he decided, and headed down into the basement where he kept a storage locker full of things he'd never really sorted through when he’d move out of his parent's. But he knew there were some prints, some splashes of colour from his time trekking in the Amazon, that would make his space feel like his again.

Decorating and cleaning done Stephen made himself some more tea and risked a bacon sandwich. When that went down okay he made himself another one, and then some chicken soup, before devouring the last of his stash of chocolate biscuits. He'd definitely need to go out shopping tomorrow.

He looked over at the calendar. Tomorrow should be the day the first years handed in all their essays, and he and Cutter tried to sort them into piles: Yes this person knows what they're talking about/This person can't even spell their name correctly/This person is downright dangerous. But he wouldn’t be doing any of that. He'd probably never even see Cutter again.

Not that he could blame Cutter, much as he wanted to, because the things Cutter had said, they'd cut, deep. Deeper than any scar Helen had left on him. Because every one of Cutter's words had been aimed precisely. They showed how much Cutter knew him and how little Stephen knew himself.

He moved over to the drinks cabinet, considered pouring some whisky into his tea and then discarded that thought; it had been a Christmas present from Cutter and didn't deserve to be sullied like this.

Restless, his legs twitching with nervous energy, he went back to his laptop and checked for messages. There was one site in particular that he stared at a long time before logging in.

“You have one message” it said, flashing incessantly until he clicked on it.

He read the message, short and to the point. If it had been anything else, if it had smacked of romance or any kind of sentimentality, Stephen might have dismissed it out of hand. But he merely minimised the window. Thinking.

* * * * *

Stephen woke to find himself lying slumped on the sofa. His neck had a crick in it and his throat was parched, but he felt considerably more human than he had done in several months. Downing two glasses of lukewarm water in quick succession he headed over to the laptop and tapped out a quick, perfunctory reply to his earlier message.

No going back now.

* * * * *

Stephen was putting away his food shopping, wincing slightly at the cost of everything and hearing his mother's voice telling him he should never food shop on an empty stomach, when his phone vibrated right across the kitchen counter. He grabbed it before it could smash on the floor and nervously read the message. He had a date.

* * * * * *

He and Helen had never really dated. It was a little hard to date someone who was married to your best friend. Not hard to drag her into empty classrooms and devour her though. Not hard to lie to his best friend’s face about what he did with his evenings. Not hard at all.

That was probably what had eaten away at him the most. Not the fact that he was lying to Cutter, but that he was so good at it.

And now he had the chance of a new start. One that didn't factor in either of the Cutters; one he never wanted to see again, the other who never wanted to see him again. His job was gone. Any prospects of finishing his Ph.D. completely lain to waste. After that journalist had turned up on his parent's doorstep he knew any hope of an academic career was out of the question.

As he laid out his favourite shirts on his bed he tried to remember why he'd even gone down the academic track. He preferred the practicalities – tracking creatures, conservation work, building things with his own hands and having the satisfaction of knowing that he had made an actual difference, had touched a life in some redeemable way.

He picked up all the shirts and threw them into the bin. They all reminded him of Helen. Of trying to _impress_ Helen. And what a waste of time that had been. Instead he dug deep into the back of his wardrobe and found a light green shirt he hadn't worn in years. With black jeans and his leather jacket he could pass for a decent human being. Probably.

* * * * *

He read the text on his phone again, checking that yes, he was in the right place, and then flicked it to silent. He could always pretend it was on vibrate in his pocket if he needed a quick escape route.

He stepped inside the pub, one that he'd never been in before, and which he didn't think either Cutter had ever been in either. He hesitated in the door a moment, until he spotted a likely candidate to be his date. The man turned his head and Stephen smiled, yes, definitely the right choice.

“Stephen?” he asked, as Stephen approached.

Stephen nodded. “Becker?”

“Wearing the red tie, as I said.” He tugged at it nervously, drawing Stephen’s attention to his neck. “Thought it was better than a red rose.”

“You can take it off if you like,” Stephen said, then proceeded to remove it for him before Becker quite knew what he was doing. Stephen twisted it in his hands a few moments and then popped it into Becker's pocket, lingering there until their eyes met. Stephen sat back on his own stool and ordered them both a drink.

Becker watched him through hooded eyes. “I don't usually do this kind of thing,” he said at last.

“What kind of thing would that be? Men or date?”

Becker didn't bat an eye at the question. “Date.”

Stephen smiled behind his glass of wine. “So not a first timer, then?”

“I know where to stick what body part, if that's what you're asking.”

Stephen nearly choked on his drink.

“Careful,” Becker said, “you should work on your gag reflex.”

Stephen could feel his cheeks heating up, which was ridiculous. He'd seen and done much worse in his time. But Becker was disarming him bit by bit. Maybe, just maybe, he could let himself relax. Let himself think this could be something more.

* * * * *

They spent all night talking. About stupid things. About the meaning of life, the universe (“42” they'd both declared at the same time), about women they'd known and loved, about men who'd never returned their calls. About the army and academia. About shooting. About hiding who you were until you'd thought you’d burst. About destroying yourself because it was easier than letting any one else do it. About redemption.

Becker was making up for the loss of his team in Afghanistan. Stephen was only making up for ruining a marriage and his own career. It didn't come close in comparison and Stephen felt stupid for even bringing it up.

“Pain hurts the same whether the loss is big or small,” Becker said. “That I know from experience.”

Stephen thought he might be falling in love.

* * * * * *

They didn't have sex straight away. (“I'm not that kind of soldier,” Becker had said, to Stephen's amusement). Instead they talked and kissed, and fumbled in the dark. They lay side by side in bed, touching, discovering. Stephen found himself delighting in the strangest things, like the way Becker's fingers dashed across the keyboard when he was writing an email, the concentration on his features when he shaved, the way droplets ran down his body when he had a shower. Sometimes he thought all he'd have to do was look at Becker and his body would take him over the edge.

* * * * *

“What made you sign up?” Becker asked one day, when Stephen was lying next to him, head in his lap.

“Sign up?” Stephen asked, brain foggy as Becker's fingers trailed through his hair.

“To the website. AnotherLifetime.com?”

“You know why,” Stephen said. He hadn't kept anything back. Even the things he'd told himself not to mention, the things he'd assumed would scare Becker away, had come spilling out of him.

“I know why you think you signed up, I want to know why you really did.”

Stephen frowned. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Yes you do, Stephen. You know, you just haven't been able to face it.” Becker kissed his forehead. “This is real, I promise you, Stephen. What you and I have. I wasn’t expecting it when I came after you. God, I really had no idea...”

Stephen sat up and pushed himself a little away from Becker. “When you came after me? You found me. On a dating website.” He tried to smile, to make his lips move the way he imagined in his head, but nothing happened. Becker wasn't joking. Whatever this was, it wasn't a joke.

“I did find you. Or, rather, our very talented tech found you. Her name's Jess, you’ll probably hate her on site, but if she knows anything, it's computers.”

“I don't – Becker – what are you saying?”

“I'm saying I didn't mean to fall in love with you. But I did.” He took Stephen's hands in his and Stephen stared at them. He hated the sight of his own hands, the scar tissue standing out against the paleness of his flesh.

“You've never said. In all this time. You've never said what happened. What the scars mean. How you got them.”

“What scars?” Stephen asked. He looked down at his hands and pulled them away from Becker. They were as unmarked as the day he'd been born.

Becker put his hands on Stephen's knees and pressed down firmly. “Can you even feel that?” Becker asked.

Stephen couldn’t, but he'd got used to lying about certain things. It wasn't a lie if it was yourself you were lying to. “Of course.”

Becker leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Stephen's lips. “I will help you get through this Stephen. I promise.”

Stephen shook his head. He didn’t want to remember. He didn't want to see. He'd spent so long not seeing. Living in the past. The hurt he felt, the hurt he'd caused, that was in the past and he was remembering it, day after day, his penance. That's what it meant. That's what the hurt was. The scars, the scars weren't real scars, they were only in his mind. Of course they were. They criss-crossed his body because he was punishing himself. That's all.

Becker pulled Stephen closer. “I'm going to tell you a story, Stephen. And when I'm done, I'm going to take you home.”

“Home?” Stephen asked, the blood in his veins suddenly cold as ice. He didn't have a home. He'd never really had a home, not even when he was living with his parents. He'd never really had anything.

“Home. With friends. And me. People who care for you. Who have always cared for you. And with people who will care for, just as soon as they get to know you.”

“In another lifetime?” Stephen whispered.

“Exactly.”

“So, how does this story start then?” Stephen asked. He ignored the wet feeling on his cheeks, hopeful that Becker would do the same. He had no reason to cry. Everything was fine.

“Once upon a time, in a world not unlike this one, there was a secret government project, called the ARC....”


End file.
